


Cat and Tiger

by raven_aorla



Series: Just Like Animals [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: 1950s, Aftermath of Violence, Banter, Blood, Detective Noir, Enemies to Lovers, Humanized Hot Daga Characters, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Moral Ambiguity, Period Typical Attitudes, Power Dynamics, Referenced Child Abduction, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: Hot on the trail of the missing Degas children, C.C. Tinsley misunderstood the situation. He (slightly) misunderstood what kind of man the notorious Ricky Goldsworth is. Now the private investigator is working with an unhinged, yet undeniably magnetic criminal, and Tinsley hates how much he's drawn to him.





	1. Chapter 1

All these weeks of searching, and C.C. Tinsley had it all wrong. Goldsworth didn't kidnap the children Tinsley has been hired to find. Goldsworth was stalking the man who did. Now that Tinsley's seen what Goldsworth has done to the culprit, will Goldsworth ever let him out of this basement?

"Stop looking at me like a scared kitten, Tin Man," Goldsworth says, stepping over a dark red puddle. He's far too pleasing to look at, muscular yet delicately featured, dark-haired and bright-eyed. He brushes a lock of hair out of Tinsley's face in what would be an almost tender gesture if he wasn't covered in blood and holding a dripping knife in his other hand - and if Tinsley wasn't gagged and tied to a chair. "I've had a lot of fun playing cat-and-mouse with you, when you didn't know it was really cat-and-tiger. But I needed you out of the way while I worked, y'know? Did you close your eyes, or did you like the show more than you thought you would?"

"He told you where the children are and you killed him anyway," Tinsley says accusingly the moment his mouth is free.

"Killing scum is fun. I _know_ you agree." Goldsworth smiles. His teeth are very white and even. Maybe he was raised by a dentist who decapitated people in his spare time. "This is how this is going to go down. You're going to come with me. I'm no good with kids, so you'll help me get 'em back to Mommy and Daddy in one piece and we'll split the big reward. I can play the nice guy if it suits me. But first you're going to help me bury this body and never say a word to anyone about it."

"Why the hell should I do that, Goldsworth?"

Goldsworth cuts the ropes and tosses the knife aside. He still has a gun on his hip, but Tinsley could make a run for it right now. Could. Should. Doesn't.

Because the way Goldsworth looks at him is liquid smoke and solid want. "Call me Ricky, baby," he murmurs before grabbing his shirt collar and pulling him up into a possessive kiss. Not possessive like he thinks he owns Tinsley, but like he's aware he does.

"Maybe I can play the bad guy if it suits me," Tinsley allows when Ricky lets him breathe. 

"If it suits me, you mean."


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m riding with you,” Ricky says once the body’s buried. He made Tinsley do most of the digging, arguing that he’d done all of the stabbing, though he graciously took on the duty of torching the stolen car he’d brought the man in. They’re leaving the house itself alone, because apparently it belongs to someone who owed Ricky a favor. 

By this point it’s the wee hours of the morning. Tinsley is sweaty and near-exhausted, clutching at his coat like a security blanket. Running on nothing but adrenaline. He opens his mouth to protest, inquire, comment, something at least, something other than trot along at Ricky’s heel. But Ricky presses him backwards on the hood of his own battered black Ford, one hand gripping Tinsley’s hair and one hand splayed over his stomach. Ricky kisses like Tinsley’s the only real thing in the world. It’s impossible not to get tipsy on it. 

“That’s going to stop working sooner or later,” Tinsley grouses.

“I’m looking forward to what happens then,” Ricky says sweetly, letting him up. What makes matters worse is that he’s shed a lot of his outer layers that got the worst of the bloodstains, chucking them in the car before setting it on fire, so he’s only in a white shirt, charcoal suit pants, suspenders, and miraculously still-shiny black loafers. His tanned skin has pinked slightly from scrubbing his face and hands with cold water. He looks delicious and bright and poisonous, like antifreeze.

Tinsley tosses his coat at Ricky. “You’ve still got some red specks. It’ll scare the children.”

“I didn’t think you’d start undressing for me quite so soon.” Smartass comment aside, Ricky puts it on. Given that Tinsley is about a head taller than him, the sleeves cover his hands in a strangely adorable way, and he hastens to roll them up. “Can I have your hat to go with it? It’s so Bogart-y.”

“You can’t have my hat. It’s too Bogart-y. Don’t trip your little legs on the hem,” Tinsley hears himself saying. Then flinches, like Ricky might hit him, or possibly gut him.

But Ricky just snorts. “Don’t break one of your bone stilts in the meantime, pal.”

It takes them forty minutes to reach the address Ricky extracted. It’s a dilapidated cabin in the woods with a cellar that you can access without entering the house itself. Tinsley brought his lockpicking kit - he can manage with hairpins but this is quicker - and gets the cellar door open while Ricky hangs back as lookout.

All three Degas kids are there, dirty and bruised and understandably spooked, but Tinsley talks to them gently and recites things only their parents would know about them, details they gave him to build trust. This coaxes them out. They can all walk, though Gene Degas, the youngest at age seven, seems weaker than his siblings. Mike Degas, age twelve, is very quiet and has a partially healed red gash on his forehead. He’s also got a dry but persistent cough. Tinsley gives him a hankie to cough into. Ten-year-old Maisie Degas’ long hair is matted and filthy to the point of looking greenish, and she has a grim look too old for her young face, but she takes the lead in questioning Tinsley and speaking for her brothers. 

“Who’s that?” she asks, pointing at Ricky, who is taking a smoke break on the front stoop. “Is he a private eye like you?”

Ricky gives her what he must think looks like a reassuring smile. It’s almost right. Hopefully a child can’t tell the difference, can’t see the falseness. “I’m a freelance problem-solver, darlin’. You can call me Mr. Lobo.”

What the _fuck_. But Tinsley doesn’t say that. With any luck the Degases don’t know Spanish. “He was looking for you too, and we ran into each other and decided to team up. Your parents haven’t had a lot of luck with the police…”

“That’s one way to put it,” Ricky comments, taking a drag. Tinsley was furious when he learned about all the incompetence and corruption that made the parents desperate enough to hire a disgraced ex-cop to pick up the goddamn slack. 

“So we’re taking you straight home, okay?”

“I’m hungry,” Gene whispers.

“I am too. We’ll get something on the way.” Tinsley ushers them into the backseat. He’s glad he sprang for one of the models that were new at the time, the kind with retractable seat belts in the back. He buckles each of them in, with Gene in the middle since he’s small. Before chasing after Ricky, Tinsley had packed a rescue kit of sorts in his trunk, which besides a first-aid kit includes water, a few lightly buttered slices of bread, a jacket or sweater for each child, three parent-provided beloved stuffed animals, and a blanket. He distributes the goods among them. “We’ll get you a real meal soon. Wait here a minute.”

Ricky’s still smoking on the front stoop, watching the sunrise. Tinsley looms over him, trying to use his height for psychological leverage. “You got something to say, Legs?” Ricky asks.

“For some reason I’ve been letting you push me around -”

“Some reason that is incredibly _hard_ to identify.” Ricky winks. 

Tinsley balls his hands into fists. “But whatever this is between us, everything is going to be nice and normal in front of those children. We’re just a nice - maybe a bit eccentric - pair of guys who aren’t going to cause them any more distress than they’ve been through. For their sakes. And for our own sakes, we’re gonna be a pair that isn’t obviously...you know.”

“Do I?”

Tinsley rolls his eyes and lowers his voice. “You know…queer.” He actually likes women too, but that’s not doing him a lot of good right now.

Ricky stares up at him for a long moment. Then he says, “Okay,” and holds out a hand for Tinsley to help him up.

Once Ricky is standing, Tinley takes advantage of their position and shakes on it. “Okay, then, let’s go.”

“Wanna puff of my smoke before I toss it? I don’t want to asphyxiate little Mikey.” Tinsley knows without any doubt that if he says yes, Ricky is going to put it between Tinsley’s lips, not his hand, and be amused at the resulting flusterment. That’s how Ricky rolls. 

“Kind of you to consider their health. No, thank you.” Tinsley heads to the car. It’s easier to be respectable when there are people to be respectable for, and easier to be good when there are people who deserve goodness.

“You don’t damage a package you’re transporting before you get paid,” Ricky says.

***

For the first part of the drive, Maisie asks alarmingly grown-up questions about Tinsley’s qualifications and job history that he sanitizes as best he can. Gene softly sings along with the radio. Mike periodically dozes off, then wakes himself up with more coughing. Ricky silently watches the scenery.

They eventually come upon a small, isolated roadside diner. They’d passed a few other places where they could get food but weren’t as likely to get privacy. Maisie asked about that, and for once Ricky spoke up and said the bad guys might find them. The children didn’t object to any skipped stops after that. 

Tinsley’s worried about what it’s going to look like, two men in their thirties bringing three ragged children in for breakfast. Lunch. Brunch. Whatever. Ricky seems to read his mind, because as Tinsley pulls into a parking space he says, “Give me a two-minute head start. I’ll explain things to the waitress so she doesn’t get worried.”

“Explain things?” Becoming an accessory after the fact to murdering a piece of shit is one thing, but letting Ricky hurt random working stiffs is another. 

“Trust me,” Ricky says softly. He puts a hand on Tinsley’s leg, out of their passengers’ sight. For once it doesn’t feel like part of a long prologue before getting into Tinsley’s pants. _I can play the nice guy if it suits me._

Tinsley gives him exactly two minutes before entering the diner, kids in tow. The decor is ugly and the chairs scruffy, but the place is clean. No other customers. Only one waitress is on duty, on the plain side but young with curly auburn hair, and she’s busy giggling at something Ricky’s just said. Ricky could practically be a different person. He’s got the fingers of his left hand curled around a cup of coffee, but his right hand is gesturing, animated, as he flirts and sparkles in her direction. Tinsley settles into a corner booth to keep the kids out of sight of any new customers. She barely pays enough attention to them to take their orders. Ricky keeps reeling her in.

While they’re waiting for the food, Tinsley takes Mike and Gene to the men’s room to relieve themselves and clean up a bit in the sink. Thankfully, after he brings them back Maisie announces that she can take care of herself and she isn’t scared. She comes back looking much better, and she’s even tied her hair back using a twisted paper napkin from the table. Tinsley has never been particularly interested in having kids of his own, but if they’d be guaranteed to turn out exactly like Maisie, he might consider it.

He let them order whatever they want. They kept the bread down earlier, so they probably aren’t so starved that they’ll hurt themselves. Maisie said they had been eating pretty regularly in the cellar, not tasty food or a lot of it, but adequate. It was just that their ‘caretaker’ hadn’t shown up for their last mealtime. Tinsley knew from his research that the scumbuckets that took them were taking revenge on Mr. Degas for his political activism and defiance towards organized crime first, but Ricky learned they were also planning to sell the kids to the highest bidder. Bids would be higher if the children could work hard or look pretty, depending on who was buying. 

So yeah, for the few hours Tinsley is with them, they are getting everything they want. They arrived during a part of the late morning where this diner serves both breakfast and lunch, so Tinsley indulges in a waffle with berries and two cups of coffee. Maisie gets a hot dog and fries with a side of corn on the cob. Mike gets a big bowl of soup, for his cough. Gene insists he only wants fries, root beer, and a pickle. 

Once they’re all in the car again, Ricky tells the Degases, “I asked to use their phone and I told your mom and dad that we’ve got you and we’re on our way.”

Tinsley’s heart can’t help but warm when he sees their smiles in the rearview mirror. “Don’t be scared when you don’t recognize the town. Your parents have decided to live somewhere new.” 

***

The sobbing Degas parents pay Tinsley with a fat check and an offer to stay for dinner. He politely declines, lets the kids hug him, and heads off into the night. 

Ricky is waiting for him in the shabby but serviceable hotel room Tinsley’s been using as his headquarters for the past two months. He’s got his feet up on the desk while he looks through exactly what Tinsley expected him to find.

“You made a whole scrapbook of me,” Ricky says, sounding pleased.

Tinsley locks the door behind him and hangs up his coat and hat. “It’s not a scrapbook, it’s a case file. You were the prime suspect.”

“Scraaaapbooooooook. I’m surprised it’s not full of mash notes. _Oooh, that Ricky is so dreamy…_ ”

“It’s full of documentation on horrible things you’ve done.” Tinsley walks over to look over Ricky’s shoulder. 

“Even better.” Ricky puts a light hand on the small of Tinsley’s back. “You included lots of photos, too. More than you needed.”

Maybe if Tinsley pretends this isn’t happening, everything will go back to normal. They’re so close to the finish line of their temporary alliance. “I’m going to the bank tomorrow to cash the check and can give you your share then.”

“We’ll take a few days off, then I’ve got a job in Arizona you’re going to help me with,” Ricky says airily.

Something inside Tinsley snaps. He kicks the chair out from under Ricky, who falls to the floor with a yelp, and kicks him in the gut before taking out a switchblade. He still doesn’t know what Ricky did with his gun after overpowering him at the beginning of this whole...thing. “You presumptuous asshole. Mr. Wolf, you told them to call you. Do you think I’m a sheep?”

“Nah, I think you’re a llama,” Ricky says, curled in on himself but otherwise passive.

Tinsley nudges him with his foot, glorying in turning the tables. “Unpack that for me.”

“Llamas are prey animals, gawky funny-looking things, but they don’t run from wolves. They run at them. And kick them. That’s what you’re like, Clarence Cuthbert Tinsley Junior.” Ricky grins with a feral look in his eyes. “You don’t like your name, which by all logic is the same as your dad’s. Does that dislike have anything to do with all those times you had mysterious broken bones and concussions as a kid? See, when you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also does some research into you.”

This wasn’t a man, this was a demon sent to torment him personally. “Are you asking for another kick, _Enrique Goto_?” The name took a lot of digging, and Tinsley is proud of finding it.

Ricky sits up and cocks his head. “I’d really rather ask for a fuck. Got a thing for a competent boy. The Chicago PD were fools to let you go. You don’t belong with sheep. You haven’t for a long time.”

“You think I belong with you?” Tinsley aims for scornful, but the crack in his voice makes it sound like a different emotion entirely.

Ricky reaches for Tinsley’s fly. Tinsley doesn’t move. He should. He can’t. 

At least Ricky doesn’t say anything else infuriating while his mouth is busy.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Tinsley’s eyes open. A slice of late morning sun is peeking through the curtains. He’s a telltale combination of sore and relaxed. It takes him a second to remember what the warm weight against his back is, whose arm is around his waist and whose leg is draped over his thighs. “That your idea of pillow talk, waking up and asking about ghosts while clinging to a guy like you’re a koala bear?”

“Koalas ain’t bears,” Ricky retorts drowsily. “Bears are top predators. Koalas are more like stoned stuffed animals.”

“You like animal comparisons.”

“I like National Geographic magazines. You passed out right after I climbed you like a tree.”

“It’s your fault I was so damn tired to start with.” Tinsley undermines his annoyed tone when he brings Ricky’s hand up and starts mouthing at this fingers, not sucking them exactly, more like running his lips over them, reacquainting himself with their shape. 

“You’re lucky I washed my hands after you drifted off.” Ricky presses a kiss between Tinsley’s shoulder blades. “Next time you can do the honors. I had this really vivid picture of your long legs over my shoulders that I wanted to bring to life soon as I could, is all. Didn’t imagine you scratching my back up quite so good. Nice bonus.”

Tinsley feels parts of him stirring that the rest of him isn’t ready to deal with yet. “Jesus fuck, why do you have to talk like that first thing in the morning?”

“Apparently you’ve got a dirtier mouth first thing in the morning. I like it. So, ghosts. Do you believe in them?”

Tinsley turns around so they’re face-to-face. Ricky’s hair is such a disaster that it’s downright cute. He knows better than to comment on it. “I believe there’s things we don’t know how to explain yet, and some people call those things ghosts or demons or, I dunno, one-eyed one-horned flying purple people eaters. I don’t. Why, did you hear moaning noises in the middle of the night or something?”

“Yeah, but from you.” Ricky grins and puts a hand on Tinsley’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. “When I heard you were looking for me, I dug up as much of your past as I could while still stalking the kidnappers. But there’s only so much you can learn from secondary sources. Especially what a man believes. I know you believe in the law as a concept but don’t believe in every single individual law. It’s sweet.”

“I wouldn’t call it sweet. It ruined my life, more or less.” He should have known that his little bendings of regulations here and there wouldn’t go unnoticed forever, but regular joes getting arrested for “gross indecency” while rich pricks got away with beating their wives hadn’t sat well with him. 

“So, so, so sweet. We’re not so different, baby, we both solve people’s problems because we’re good at it and it’s an excuse to hunt down assholes. It’s just that you believe most cases should end in the courtroom and I believe most cases should end six feet under. And you don’t believe in ghosts. Your turn.”

“My turn for what?” Then Ricky rolls over to his other side. Tinsley gets the hint and curls around him, holding him close. “I can’t figure you out. What made you like this and why I don’t mind it more.”

“You think some laws are bullshit, I know they all are. You’re not as dumb as most but you still grew up a comfortable white boy. You know my real name. You know where names like that come from, and how that gets you treated in this country unless you learn to fight back. Bite my ear.”

“You’re a nutcase.” But he does, gently worrying the lobe between his front teeth. “I feel for you, but that’s not an excuse for breaking a man’s fingers one by one like you did in that basement.”

“I don’t need an excuse to enjoy myself.” 

Ricky’s past isn’t an excuse for what he’s become, but it does provide a modicum of explanation for why he might have a chip on his shoulder. Records from the war, in particular. He'd spent a chunk of his teens locked up in Manzanar for the 'crime' of having a Japanese father, which probably warped his view of the American legal system, and if he’d been an outcast among outcasts for having a Mexican mother at the same time, that would have fed a slow burn of alienation and resentment. A wholesome kid would have gotten shaken up but probably come out decent. But a kid who would have been a real piece of work no matter what...well. By all accounts his brother, now a gangster called Night-Night, is even nastier than Ricky in certain ways.

But Ricky isn’t in a good place to know how much Tinsley knows about him. All Tinsley says is, “Again, you’re a nutcase. You made me watch you take a man apart by inches.”

“I didn’t make you watch. I tied you up facing the show so you could watch if you felt like it. Big difference. Did you?”

Tinsely doesn’t answer. His grip on Ricky tightens. He can’t say Ricky had been _beautiful_ playing the savage predator, because that will open the door to thinking he wants to be more like Ricky, which he doesn’t want to believe. 

(He knows, though. He’s not falling - he fell, he's fallen.)

Ricky chuckles. “Aw. I’ll kiss you after you brush your teeth.”

“Later. Don’t go yet.”

They spoon in silence for awhile, and the slice of sunlight grows and grows. Ricky is surprisingly endearing when he’s in a peaceful mood, breathing softly with his naked skin smooth against Tinsley’s.

The next time Ricky speaks, he twists his head around to look at Tinsley’s face. “As I said last night, I got a job in Arizona lined up. Pal of a pal of a pal runs a bordello. They’re getting harrassed, girls getting messed with, but they don’t know who’s doing it. You should come with me. Maybe you’ll keep me in line, make me act like a good boy. Well, a less bad one.”

“Is he going to provide lodging?” Tinsley asks.

“ _She’s_ gonna make sure we’re taken care of until we can take care of business. She knows what I’m like, by the way, it’s part of why she wants me on the case. Not interested in the girls.”

“Huh.”

“So we can have more mornings like this one.”

“Huh.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I think we could be a good team for that specific job, like we were for this one after you stopped being a dumbass.” Ricky turns over onto his back and nudges Tinsley to do the same. He’s a cuddle choreographer, apparently. “After that, who the hell knows?”

“Long drive to Arizona.”

“I’ll pitch in for gas and snacks.”

Tinsley thinks about it. He doesn’t have anything waiting for him back home except an empty apartment and a returned engagement ring he hasn’t gotten around to reselling. “I need to call my secretary and tell her I need her to continue handling my messages for awhile.” 

“Sounds swell.” Ricky sits up and stretches. “Do you believe in aliens?”

“Other than possibly the one right next to me, no.”

“Demons?”

Tinsley swats him with an imaginary newspaper. “Ricky, quit it.”

Ricky has the whitest, whitest teeth when he laughs, but his eyes are very dark. “I’m not planning on quitting anything. Tiger can’t change his stripes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend [Japanese Americans Visit A WWII Incarceration Camp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrK1j4BNmHE), featuring Ryan, Jen, and other Buzzfeed folks. Some of them talk about family members of theirs who were interned there. It's a moving video about important history, and I wanted to give a nod to it. 
> 
> Also, thank you for reading this moderately twisted tale. Would love to know what you think!


End file.
